


little words

by straddling_the_atmosphere



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Drabble Collection, M/M, silverflintdow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-07 11:28:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16853179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/straddling_the_atmosphere/pseuds/straddling_the_atmosphere
Summary: Flint and Silver, in a hundred words (more or less)





	1. Past, honesty, travel

“Will you tell me of your past?” Flint always asks this, idly, as they laze about in their sun-drenched sheets. Silver opens one eye and looks at him, the freckled expanse of him, the grey in his beard and his now-grown hair. His eyes are the same as they were back then, green like jade and shrewd. Right now, they’re soft with sleep. They have traveled far to get to this, fought hard to have this peace.

“No,” he says, honest in the only way he knows how to be. He knows Flint doesn’t really mind anymore.


	2. Red, fault, drought

They were surrounded by water, yet in a drought. Silver had stopped more than a few men from scooping up salt water and drinking their fill–not that he particularly cared for their well-being, but seasick madness would do terrible things to a crew’s moral.

He could track the days without sustenance in the fault lines on Flint’s face, deep grooves carved into his gaunt cheekbones and forehead. The red of dried blood on his cracked lips was brighter than his beard, and Silver, in a moment of starvation-induced madness, wanted to taste it, to see if Flint’s blood would sate the thirst clawing at his rib-cage and throat.


	3. Owl, horizon, scream

An owl watches him between the thick branches, eyes as luminous as twin moons at night. The forest is still, slivers of light spun like silk in the nettle by Flint’s feet. There’s a crack in the distance and the owl screams—his heart pounds, muscles in his legs taut and quivering.

It is Flint’s turn to chase, and he spots curls like spilled ink on the horizon, the ghost of that quicksilver voice echoing in his ear. It is inevitable that they meet, the night and the day, and for those few moments, Flint curls his fingers in Silver’s hair and kisses the laughter out of his moonstruck mouth.


	4. Villain, water, book

Silver dropped his crutch carelessly and bent down, cupping his hands into the stream. Droplets ran down his neck, creating stark lines of clean skin through the layer of dust and mud caked onto him. He was a wild thing, eyes electric and bright.

Silver looked up, teeth white against the tan of his dirty face and dark beard. “We should wash, no?” he asked and somehow Flint found himself being led into the water, Silver’s eyes on him as he dunked his head, strong palm cupped under his scalp.

“There you are,” he murmured, his thumb hot on Flint’s throat. “No longer the villain of the West Indies.” Flint’s breath caught. Silver, his benevolent baptist, always cracked him open like a well-loved book.


	5. Trust, Energy, Mother

“You know,” Silver says, panting, sweat dripping down the dip of his neck and collarbones as he parries Flint’s sword back. “You never tell me about your childhood. What was your mother like?”

Flint startles and Silver flicks the edge of his sword to Flint’s throat, eyes bright, energetic and cunning.

“I didn’t know her well,” Flint says after a moment, tipping his chin up and trusting his life to Silver’s blade. “My grandfather raised me.”

“Surely you remember something.” Silver raises his eyebrows.

“Surely you do, too,” Flint counters and Silver’s sword arm trembles before he drops it, blade shining in the grass, and hands Flint his waterskin.


	6. Love, Tease, Haunted

They say that there is an island out in the West Indies not on any map. They say that a ghost haunts this island, that anyone who dares set foot on it goes mad, that to look into their eyes is to see a sickly glitter of gold until all that’s left of them is skeletal remains where they’d dug themselves into their own grave.

They say that the island was cursed because of a wrath cut short, of a betrayal that poisoned the dirt underneath them, that corrupted a treasure of love and lies.

Long John Silver takes his first step on that sand in three decades, the cold wind teasing his grey-streaked hair, and knows deep in his bones that he will not leave this place alive.


	7. Revolution, Mask, Dance

His eyes were the only things visible underneath the turban as he stood in the cabin, all darkness and shadow, and Silver reached out, watching as the glittering green tracked the movement. It was a well-worn dance, the unmasking of Captain Flint after a raid, and Silver ignored the ache in his leg as he tugged the cloth from Flint’s face, revealing bit by bit the man beneath the rampage, the flesh and blood human that lived underneath the revolutionary name.

With a flick of his wrist, the headscarf fell to the ground with a soft thump, and the two of them breathed.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silverflint drabble of the week, 12/17/18: Contempt, pray, glass.

Water slides down the stained glass of the window next to the pew he’s sitting in. The church smells of must and hay, an abandoned skeleton used only for the horses and donkeys of the families during the rainy season. Flint hasn’t prayed in a long time, and as he stares at the crumbling altar with mild contempt, he wonders if he should. The weight of this war bends his back, hunching him over like a man two times his age.

There’s a sound, and then a thump of wood against wood.

“Captain,” Silver says and Flint’s heart jerks in his chest, happiness a long-forgotten emotion. “What are you doing hiding in here?”


End file.
